


Wholeness

by queercyberpunk



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 21:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6300868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queercyberpunk/pseuds/queercyberpunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Trespasser DLC:</p>
<p>“I know a little about how it feels--to not be whole. But just know, kadan, you will never be any less important to me. Any less beautiful.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wholeness

When Lavellan returns through the Eluvian with his foreshortened arm, there is a wave of pregnant silence that follows. Cassandra cannot stop the immediate rise in her brows, nor can Vivienne quell the shocked twitch that twists her lips. Bull notices these things because it is impossible for him not to. What he notices more than anything, however, is the forlorn look in Lavellan’s eyes. He holds his bow limply in his hand; it is nothing more than a wood carving to him now. The skill he learned hunting fennecs in the woods with his clan, honed as the leader of the Inquisition, now rendered useless. Beyond the sorrow, there is a pervading emptiness about his eyes, their challenging shine snuffed out.

 

“You...found Solas?” Cassandra says, steeling her features as she turns her eyes to Lavellan’s.

 

“Yes,” Lavellan says, and he looks down at the space where a sinewy forearm once was, “I did.”

 

“We must return to the Exalted Council at once, my dear,” Vivienne says. “We’ll sort all of this out once we return.”

 

Lavellan nods and steps towards them. It’s only then that Bull realizes he hasn’t said anything. The realization makes choosing which words even more difficult; instead, he makes his way to Lavellan’s side, reaching for the bow he still clutches in his hand.

 

“Let me strap that back on for you,” Bull offers tentatively, his hand brushing Lavellan’s

 

“No,” Lavellan answers curtly, drawing back, “it’s alright. I don’t need it anymore.” He lets it fall from his fingers and clatter onto the ground. There is another beat of terse, heavy silence.

 

“Kadan…”

 

Lavellan closes his eyes for a moment, drawing in a measured breath then releasing it. When he opens his eyes again, the emptiness has been filled. Bull can see indignation, rage, frustration, acceptance.

 

“Let’s go.” Lavellan squares his shoulders and begins to walk briskly towards the awaiting Eluvian that will lead them back to the Winter Palace. Bull takes a few long strides to keep in time with him, and he can’t help the worried frown that drags the corners of of mouth downward.

 

Bull is surprised when Lavellan’s remaining hand reaches out to grasp his. Bull opens his palm and lets his long fingers encircle Lavellan’s. What surprises Bull even more is how much they’re trembling, despite Lavellan’s tight, composed expression.

 

-

 

The rest of the Exalted Council is all long talks, political jargon, and heated disagreement. Fereldan in particular is the most vocal about and displeased by the Inquisition’s action. Bull knows he best stay out of sight in the tavern, along with the Chargers. He spends the next several days of the Council idly drinking and listening to the lilt of Maryden’s voice. She’s composed a few new ones since he’d last been in the Herald’s Rest, and Bull thinks they’re good, if a little melancholy.

 

He only sees Lavellan from time to time, too swept up in work and negotiation to put much time aside for play. When he does manage to briefly see Bull, there’s still that swirling elixir of mixed emotions raging behind his eyes. But what prevails above them all is hard-set purpose, taming those emotions. Bull can’t help but feel a little pride; it’s not very often you fall in love with someone who can shake nations single-handedly, so to speak.

 

Bull wonders when he can really sit down with him, talk to him. He can see the coiling tension, taut as a bowstring, in Lavellan’s wiry frame. More than anything, Bull wants to the unfurl that tension from his body; he wants to untangle the knots of duty and pain that are beginning, maybe with some knots of his own. But the days drag on in a haze of topshelf ale and glimmering silver masks.

 

After a while, the Orlesian jokes get stale and the ale starts to taste like piss. Bull finds himself feeling restless, especially since he’s been given a separate room from Lavellan. Decorum, was Josephine’s explanation. Bull understood the precariousness of the political situation; still, it didn’t stop him from thinking it was a load of crap anyways. After the fifth night, Bull’s nerves are fraying. He’s wondering about Lavellan--about what happened behind the glass of the Eluvian, about the Council, about the Anchor-that-was-no-more.

 

It took a little bribery on Bull’s part. He had Vivienne help him pick out a pair of shoes for their spymaster, who in return might’ve slipped him directions to Lavellan’s room. Bull finds the whole thing a little farcical, considering Vivienne offered her help only if she were allowed to dress Bull up in a suitable shirt in return. But he was willing to suffer an hour in a dressing room with a _very_ jittery Orlesian tailor.

 

Bull waits until the nighttime activity begins to wind down. Then, he begins his sojourn through the Winter Palace, into the hall reserved for honored guests. Being his size, and with his horns, it’s no small feat remaining inconspicuous, but Bull somehow manages to evade the Orlesian guards. The Inquisition’s soldiers, of course, are long used to him by now, but he could only imagine how scandalized some of the Orlesian lords and ladies might be to find a nearly seven foot tall qunari wandering past their bedchambers.

 

When he comes to what he hopes is the right door, Bull gives a solid knock. There’s no answer, and Bull knocks again, glancing over his shoulder for the patrolling guard that would soon be rounding the corner. “Kadan,” Bull says, “you know, I’m really not supposed to be here right now. So if you wouldn’t mind letting me in.”

 

Bull can pick up the sound of treading feet on carpet and he hears the latch unlock. He takes a step back from the door as it swings open and then sidles inside, snapping it shut behind him.

 

“Bull,” Lavellan says. He’s wearing pajamas: a long silk shirt and matching pants. Bull notes the way the fabric pools loosely around his missing appendage, as well as the harried quality of his face.

 

“Kadan,” Bull says, giving a small snort, “you look like hell.”

 

Lavellan gives him a half-smile. “I know.”

 

Lavellan retreats into the room and takes a seat on a plush chaise that sits before an open fireplace.

 

“Lot ritzier than my room,” Bull says, giving an appreciative whistle as he makes his way over to the chaise. It creaks beneath his weight as he seats himself beside Lavellan. “Guess being the Inquisitor really does have perks.”

 

“Not always,” Lavellan retorts, his tone a little bitter as he glances downward.

 

“You look like you could use a massage, Kadan,” Bull says, segueing smoothly past Lavellan’s grimness. He places his elbow on his knee as he leans in towards Lavellan. “A long, hard massage. Leave you feeling like jelly.”

 

“Hmm,” Lavellan says, leaning back and closing his eyes. It’s the most relaxed Bull’s seen him look in a while. “I don’t think I could say no to that.”

 

“Well,” Bull says, leaning closer so that his breath gusts against Lavellan’s ear, “why don’t you go lay on the bed?”

 

Lavellan’s eyes flick over to him for a moment, catching his gaze and holding it. Bull stares back at him fixedly, as if to reassure him. Lavellan finally stands, and makes his way over to the bed. Bull follows, pulling off his harness and letting it fall haphazardly across the carpet. “On your stomach,” Bull says, and now he’s in command.

 

Lavellan obediently follows the order, laying down and pressing his face into the silk bedspread. Bull kicks off his shoes and then his pants before straddling him, careful not to put too much weight onto Lavellan’s back.

 

He presses a few idle kisses to the back of Lavellan’s neck and the crook of his shoulder. Bull can feel the slight hitches in his breathing, enjoying their cadence as he suckles and bites. He’s careful not to leave marks where they might peek out from the collar of his red formal uniform, though the temptation to do so is always there.

 

He rubs soothing, gentle circles across Lavellan’s back over the silk of his shirt. Bull can feel the tension dissipating from between his shoulderblades, his body become malleable beneath Bull’s touch. It’s as gratifying as it always is when Lavellan cedes control of himself to Bull.

 

Bull begins to edge up the hem of his shirt when the short, strained word springs from near-silence.

 

“Katoh.”

 

Immediately Bull pulls his hands away and swings his knee over Lavellan’s body so he’s no longer on top of him. He perches himself on the edge of the bed as Lavellan pushes himself up into sitting position. He’s keeping his eyes pointedly averted from Bull’s eye, fingers twisting themselves in the sheet.

 

There’s silence between them for several moments, and Bull surmises that Lavellan’s not quite ready to speak yet.

 

Bull breaks the silence. “Kadan,” he says, “can I take your hand for a minute?”

 

Lavellan finally looks up at him, puzzlement knitting his brows together. He seems to consider it for a moment before proffering his hand to Bull. Bull takes it gently in his own and guides it to his ribcage. “See here,” Bull says as he touches Lavellan’s fingers to a particularly thick, ropy scar there, “I don’t know if you remember, but I got this one from that Hivernal dragon we fought in Emprise du Lion. She put up one hell of a fight.”

 

Bull moves to a shorter, older scar just beneath his pectoral. “This one? Rivaini pirates. Nasty with a knife, and they know how to get it in between the ribs.”

 

He then moves downward, to a scar that stretches horizontally just above his navel. “This one was Fog Warriors--caught me with a spear. Bled all over the place.”

 

“Bull, why’re you--”

 

“And this one,” Bull says, moving Lavellan’s hand up to touch his eyepatch, “well, you know the story behind this one.” Bull gazes down at him meaningfully with his remaining eye. “I know a little about how it feels--to not be whole. But just know, kadan, you will never be any less important to me. Any less beautiful.”

 

Lavellan looks away, the muscles in his jaw tensing. “No one’s seen it. Not yet.”

 

“It doesn’t matter to me,” Bull says.

 

“I know.”

 

Lavellan seems to be deliberating within himself before carefully beginning to pull his shirt over his head. The stump of his arm is covered with dark veins, tinged with a sickly greenish color. They trace up to just below his armpit in branching patterns of corruption. Bull thinks he can still see a faint, glow from dark threads that weave across his upper arm.

 

Bull leans down and brushes his lips carefully against mottled skin.

 

“It’ll kill me someday, you know,” Lavellan murmurs.

 

Bull leans back up to look meaningfully at Lavellan, and he cups his cheek in curve of his broad palm. He lets his thumb trace one of Lavellan’s pronounced cheekbones.

 

“Well,” Bull answers, “damn good thing it’s not someday, then.”

 


End file.
